Forever With You
by Deilf Amhran
Summary: My sequel to Leroux's novel. Erik is dead the L'Epoque declares. Christine returns to fullfill her promise.


**A/N: My first PotO story. Yipee! I hope it is good. I really,_ really,_ wanted to write this well so _any _constructive criticism is more than welcomed. It's encouraged. I want to write _good _phan phics. Erik deserves _that _at least.**

**Disclaimer: Phantom of the Opera is not might. It is Gaston Leroux's and no one else's. **

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_a cold wind blows..._

Christine, little Lotte, stared at the clear, blue lake.

_Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing, which is what her father told her._

Her father, also, told her the Angel of Music would come to her if she remained as pure as Little Lotte. The Angel of Music had come; her father had been right! But he, even at heaven's gate, could not foretell that her Angel would in fact be a _man._

A man named Erik.

There was no Angel, no Voice, no Othello, and no Hades. Only Erik.

He was her Angel-man.

But that didn't sound right.

Gazing quietly, longingly at the clear crisp surface, Christine readied herself for what she must do next. Christine stood up and brushed dirt from her simple black dress. And crumbs since she had eaten before she came, but that hardly seemed appropriate to mention somehow.

Walking slowly down the street, the breeze rustling her garments, Christine's soft thoughts were in turmoil.

She hadn't wanted to return but she really had as well. The thought of returning, of going back _there _filled her with a strange sweet dread. What would she find there? Well, she knew what she would find, or more not find, and yet…

_What if he is still alive?_

That thought, tangled in with all the rest, both frightened and excited her. Christine wasn't sure that was good.

Raoul certainly hadn't thought so. He had been against her going.

"_Christine, Christine, is this really necessary? If he's dead he won't bother us. And if he's trying to trick you again then…" Raoul couldn't or didn't desire to finish._

_A breath of silence._

"_We would be best inclined to forget the whole affair. I've taken you far away from him. You're safe. Stay."_

_Shaking her pretty, little head Christine reprimanded him. "No, Raoul, no. I gave Erik _my word. _After everything I must fulfill it. It was his last request. Let me do this. I won't be able to have any peace till I do."_

_Still he resisted and when Raoul finally _began_ to relent, Christine was already restless. She left one evening without a word but with a note._

Reflecting back, Christine felt guilt twist her stomach, a feeling with which she was wholly familiar. Raoul would be so angry, upset and worried. She didn't want to hurt him but days seemed to be slipping, falling away like leaves in autumn. And she had to return before winter. She _had _to.

Her resolve, despite conflicting feelings, was clear. She had given Erik her word. Christine always kept her promises to Erik since he had so little else. At least she tried as best she could in circumstances where she felt as a trembling leaf in a gale storm.

Those gold, deep set eyes, asking and pleading, full of love and pain…how could she say no? How could she, in good conscience, on her eternal soul, _not _come back? Christine had seen his pain and grief and it had moved her in a way she thought only his music could. She had loved him then, she would never admit it to Raoul but she did. Erik had gone through all that effort, _all that pain, _to marry her (or to have her and everyone die) and he was letting her go. All she had done was shown Erik some compassion. It hadn't seemed like much at the time; it was just how she felt. Anyone would have done it…or maybe anyone wouldn't. She hadn't thought of that at the time; she had only felt compassion and love flowing through her. Maybe that was the whole point.

A shaky breath eased itself out of Christine's lips as she reached the gate at the end of the Rue Scribe. Keys fumbling in her hands, the thoughts continued, undisturbed.

Of course on a purely physical level one could see why no one would be kind to or kiss Erik. He was repulsive. A face like a skull; no nose, shadowed eyes, gaunt cheekbones. The reek of death that clung to him. The ice cold freeze of his touch. There was nothing normal or comforting about him at first glance. But that was only skin-deep. Mostly. Inside Erik was compassionate, kind and polite.

And poetic and musical.

And volatile and murderous.

But he had a good heart. Christine was sure of it. No one who could look at her with those eyes, and tell her to go as he killed himself, could be heartless. She could see it in his eyes, his face despite its ghastliness. She saw him calmly cutting his heart into pieces as if it was etched on his ghastly countenance.

How could anyone love _her_ so much? Christine had been afraid of his love, his dark, deep, intense, _possessive _love. But in the moment of loving eyes and crying hearts she had seen that Erik's love was as sweet and tender as Raoul's. If not more so. How could she have been so blind? If only she had been stronger…she would have…

But it was easy to say she'd have stayed with him in retrospect. After she had left, after he was dead, after she was married. It was always easier to make the right decision in hindsight but that didn't help the past self decide.

The further she drifted from that point in time, the fonder the memories of Erik became. Christine recalled endless hours of strict tutoring that were nevertheless joys because her soul flew to newer heights beyond her imaging each time; singing in the pseudo-normalcy of his home; reading surrounded by silken pillows; walking outside in the moonlight at rare and brief moments. They were all newer, fresher and sweeter than they had been even weeks earlier. Christine held the memories tightly inside her, turning them to pearls.

Now that everything, remembered, seemed pleasant _of course _she felt she should have stayed despite Erik's insistence. But that was hindsight.

_Hindsight, hindsight, hindsight!_ Christine stamped her foot, sick of the word.

This thought bringing her out of her reverie, Christine noticed the air had become musky and damp. She was getting closer. She knew the way like her own heart beat.

Christine walked on, her thoughts a coherent thoughtless mess. Her feelings were just as bad; guilty and intense. Darkness fell, whether it was night or the cellars, Christine didn't care. She walked on.

Soon the sound of the lapping lake filled Christine's ears. Suddenly she was there at the edge of the lake.

Christine nervously tugged at her lace sleeves, not wanting to look around her but knowing she had to. Slowly lifting her head, the…lair seemed relatively unchanged. There was an increased amount of dust, Christine thought as she ran one gloved hand along the kitchen table cloth as she walked by. The table cloth was ratty. Other than that it was the same. A heavy sense of stillness and age hung around the place.

She had a feeling, _knew_ where he would be. Reluctantly, like a timid bird walking into the den of a lion, Christine walked to his bedroom.

_The stone floor is cold_ was all Christine could think. Cold, cold, cold.

Upon entering the room Christine sighed, whether in relief or sorrow she knew not. The same as the others; unchanged except for the dust. With an almost light step, believing Erik might not be dead, just negligent, Christine walked to his bed.

His coffin.

She gasped, tears staining her eyes.

There he was.

His face, like the rooms, was unchanged. His face already was of death. His hands and neck and what else she could see were a deeper shade of yellow. And the stench of death stuck to her nose even from meters away instead of clinging tightly to his body as before.

Trembling and trying not to faint, Christine gripped the rim of the coffin and leaned forward. Bad idea. Backing away and coughing. He smelled too awful.

Wetting her suddenly (but not surprisingly) dry lips, Christine again approached his bed. She was five cellars underground with a decaying body. That would probably be enough to drive anyone mad but Christine had already been pushed to the brink and back again in a tight, swirling dance. She was beyond lunacy; it held no fear for her. Not even death, in all its unhidden glory could faze her. Especially Erik's.

For a moment, Christine gazed at Erik. Pain, sorrow, grief, and regret all mingled into tears running down her face with a pause at the nose and ending on the cold stone. She couldn't do this. She could. She couldn't. She could. She _had _to.

Resolute, Christine steeped up and onto the lowest landing. Not able to breathe she lifted her left hand and removed a little gold ring from her finger with her right hand. Slowly, oh so slowly, she held the strangely glistening metal. Nothing more could be done for a moment as tears blinded her. Then leaning toward Erik's body she grabbed his hand. There was a squish. Only a slight one. Hardly one at all. She must have imagined it. Continuing, Christine gently cradled the hand as she slipped the ring on.

There. It was done. She had done it.

For a moment Christine blinked, still holding Erik's dead hand. Ignoring the stench, the squish, the color and the darkness. Ignoring everything except Erik.

Erik.

He was……dead.

With a sudden convulsion Christine dropped the dead hand and crumbled to the floor heaving big, heavy tears. Her face in her hands, Christine couldn't do anything but shake and shiver. Her whole body shook uncontrollably as sobs wracked her throat. Big, wet, tears streaming down. Sobbing, choking…

…sobs, shakes, burdensome tears.

…uncontrollable convulsions.

…the weight of guilt lifting as the weight of grief descended.

…the weight of grief lifting and thickening simultaneously.

…sorrow deep enough to drown in.

She couldn't keep still. She couldn't move. She was rooted to the spot, crying.

Sitting in the dark underground tomb, the young soprano wept for her Angel.

_Oh, Erik_

_Erik, Erik, Erik_

_You're dead._

_And I'm here._

_Yet……_so many words yet none seemed accurate.

Silence except for the wrenching sobs. Time traveled. Christine, an empty husk, cried out and dragged herself across the floor away from the coffin.

Nothing. There was nothing inside her. There was something but it didn't matter.

Another shaking breath and Christine stood up wiping tears and mucus. with a handkerchief. Erik was gone. She missed him and there was nothing she could do about it. She hadn't said goodbye. She hadn't made peace. Christine had thought coming back would ease the hurt, salvage the pain. It hadn't. This trip had only shown her what lay buried deep within her heart. She had always loved him but hadn't realized for how long. Christine had known she loved Erik at the very end but she had, in fact, loved him for much longer. She had known deep down but her conscious mind hadn't allowed her to realize it.

_I'm sorry Erik._

_I didn't understand._

_I love you. For so long._

_But I was too afraid to move forward. To speak._

_And now……it's too late._

Bowing her head as grief and lost chances flowed through her heart. Christine sighed. Just sighed and shrived.

"Let me sing you a requiem"

And she did.

**….**

Christine knew she should go but she couldn't find it in her heart to do so. She had to return to Raoul. Raoul. She hadn't thought about him since descending into the lair. But she would return. He was the light against the darkness of her despair.

_Erik, I love you but I cannot………stay. I have a _life _to live._

Thinking that she felt strangely comforted.

She would sleep and return back when she woke.

Christine slept the deep, dreamless sleep of comfort.

**….**

The next morning, Christine awoke feeling strangely refreshed. She had slept in her old room and could almost believe she had gone back to the days of the Paris Opéra.

She could never change the past; she could only move forward holding her love for Erik like a flame of light in her heart. She could only go on. The fact didn't bring her comfort but it gave her resolution.

As Christine walked backed to the Rue Scribe, she didn't feel peace. But she did feel contentment as if Erik had sung soundless songs in her sleep. Christine had to believe Erik was in a better place. Somewhere safe, happy and peaceful. Erik deserved that at the end.

When she reached the daylight of the upper world she accepted in some small part of her heart she had hoped, believe, _wanted_ Erik to be alive. And then…and then…

She didn't know. Only that she would always be drawn to Erik. He would always hold a special place in heart like the bright light of a quenchable fire.

It wasn't much. But it was enough.


End file.
